livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. By jame Joyce

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why
not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there
behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta
of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur’s rod of
ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea,
unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of
uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me,
manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be
mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who
ever anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a
white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice.
The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple
out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems
hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes,
that’s right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I
see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen in
stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words
dark. Darkness is in our souls do you not think? Flutier.
Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet
more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.